The Phoenix and the Passion

Fear, love, joy, sadness, lust, eager desire, anger, pity, rivalry, admiration — these movements, or affections, of the mind have existed from the first creation of man by the Lord. They were put into human nature usefully and to our advantage, so that by governing himself by them with method and in accordance with reason, a man might act with courage and exercise the good qualities by which he would rightly have deserved to receive eternal life from the Lord. For these affections of the mind, kept within their proper limits — that is, rightly employed — produce good qualities now and eternal rewards later. But when they overflow their boundaries, that is, when they turn aside to an evil course, then vices and wrongdoing come out of them, and they produce everlasting punishments. [a]

Within our own memory Lactantius also speaks of metres — the pentameter, he says, and the tetrameter.

Firmianus, writing to Probus on the metres of comedies, says this: “As to the question you put to me about the metres of comedies: I too know that many hold that the plays of Terence in particular do not have the metre of Greek comedy — that is, of Menander, Philemon, and Diphilus, whose plays are made of trimeter verses. For our own early writers of comedy, in setting their plays to measure, preferred to follow Eupolis, Cratinus, and Aristophanes, as has been said before.” That there is a measure — that is, a metre — in the plays of Terence and Plautus, and of the other writers of comedy and tragedy, let these men declare: Cicero, Scaurus, and Firmianus.

We will bring forward what our own Lactantius said on this subject in the third volume of his work addressed to Probus. The Gauls, he says, were called Galatians from ancient times, from the whiteness of their bodies, and this is what the Sibyl calls them. And this is what the poet meant to signify when he wrote,

where he might have used the plain word for white. Clearly the province was named Galatia from this, since when the Gauls arrived there they joined themselves with Greeks, and for that reason the region was called Gallograecia, and afterwards Galatia. And it is no wonder that he said this about the Galatians, and reported that a people of the West, having crossed so great a distance into the middle of the earth, settled in a region of the East.

There is a happy place, far off in the first East, where heaven’s great everlasting gate stands open. It does not lie near the sun’s rising in summer or in winter, but where he pours out the day from his chariot of spring. There a plain spreads its open tracts; no mound rises there, and no hollow valley gapes. But that place stands about eighteen feet higher than the mountains whose peaks are thought lofty among us.

Here is the grove of the sun, a wood planted with many a tree, in bloom with the glory of leaves that never fail. When the sky blazed with the fires of Phaethon, that place went unharmed by the flames; and when the flood drowned the world in waves, it rose above the waters of Deucalion. No weakening disease comes here, no sickly old age, no cruel death, no harsh fear, no dreadful crime, no mad craving for riches, no Mars, no fury burning with the love of slaughter. Bitter grief is absent, and want dressed in rags, and sleepless cares, and violent hunger. No storm rages there, no dreadful violence of wind; the frost does not cover the ground with cold dew. No cloud stretches its fleecy covering over the plains, and no clouded water falls from on high. But there is a spring in the middle of it, which they call by the name “living”: clear, gentle, brimming with sweet water, which bursts out once in the course of each month and waters the whole grove twelve times over. Here a kind of tree, rising on a tall trunk, bears ripe fruit that will not fall to the ground.

This grove, these woods, one bird inhabits — the phoenix: one alone, and it lives by being reproduced through its own death. It obeys and serves Phoebus, a remarkable attendant; its parent, nature, has given it this office to hold. When the saffron morning first reddens at its rising, when it puts the stars to flight with its rosy light, three and four times she plunges her body into the sacred waters, three and four times she sips water from the living stream. She rises aloft and takes her seat on the highest top of the tall tree, which alone looks down on the whole grove; and turning toward the fresh risings of the newborn Phoebus, she waits for his rays and his rising beam.

And when the sun has thrown back the threshold of the shining gate, and the light gleam of the first daylight has shone out, she begins to pour out strains of sacred song and to greet the new light with a wondrous voice, which neither the nightingale’s notes nor the Muses’ flute can match with Cyrrhaean strains. Not even the dying swan, it is thought, can imitate it, nor the tuneful strings of Mercury’s lyre. After Phoebus has brought his horses back into the open sky and, advancing steadily, has shown his whole disc, she applauds with a threefold beating of her wings, and having worshipped the fire-bearing head three times, falls silent. She also marks off the swift hours by sounds that do not go wrong, by day and by night: presiding priest of the groves, revered priestess of the wood, and admitted alone to your secrets, Phoebus.

And when she has now completed the thousand years of her life, and length of days has made her a burden to herself, then, so that she may renew the age that has slipped away, she flees the beloved couch of the accustomed grove with the fates pressing her on. And when she has left the sacred places, out of a longing to be born again, she makes for this world, where death reigns. Full of years, she directs her swift flight into Syria, to which Venus herself gave the name Phoenice; and through trackless deserts she looks for the hidden groves in that country, where a remote wood lies concealed among the glens. Then she chooses a tall palm whose top reaches to the sky, which has the pleasing name of phoenix from the bird, and where no harmful creature can break through — no slimy serpent, no bird of prey. Then Aeolus shuts the winds into his hanging caverns, so that they will not injure the bright air with their blasts, and so that no cloud gathered by the south wind through the empty sky will take away the sun’s rays and be a hindrance to the bird.

After that she builds herself a nest, or a tomb — for she perishes in order to live, and yet she produces herself. From it she gathers juices and scents: what the Assyrian gathers from his rich woods, what the wealthy Arabian gathers, what the Pygmy peoples or India crop, or what the Sabaean land produces from its soft lap. She heaps up cinnamon, and the scent of far-carrying amomum, and balsams with their mixed leaves. The twig of mild cassia is not missing, nor of fragrant acanthus, nor the tears and rich drops of frankincense. To these she adds tender ears of flourishing spikenard, and joins to them the too-pleasing pastures of myrrh.

Then she lays her body — about to be changed — on the strewn nest, and her quiet limbs on such a couch. With her mouth she scatters juices around her and over her limbs, about to die with her own funeral rites performed. Then, among the various scents, she gives up her life, and does not fear for the safekeeping of so great a deposit. Meanwhile her body, destroyed by a death that turns out to be the source of life, grows hot, and the heat itself produces a flame; it catches fire from far off, from the light of heaven; it blazes, and dissolves into burnt ash.

And these ashes, gathered in death, it fuses, as it were, into a mass, and they have an effect like seed. From this, they say, an animal arises without limbs, and the worm is said to be milk-colored. It suddenly swells enormously, with a body not yet fully formed, and gathers itself into the appearance of a well-rounded egg. After this it is shaped again, just as its figure was before, and the phoenix, having burst her shell, springs forth — as caterpillars in the fields, when they are fastened by a thread to a stone, are accustomed to be changed into a butterfly. No food is appointed for her in our world, and no one makes it his business to feed her while she is unfledged. She sips the delicate ambrosial dews of heavenly nectar, which have fallen from the star-bearing sky. She gathers these; on these the bird is nourished in the midst of scents, until she comes into her natural form.

But when she begins to flourish in early youth, she flies out, now about to return to her native home. First, however, she encloses in an ointment of balsam, in myrrh and dissolved frankincense, all that is left of her own body — the bones, or ashes, and the remains of herself — and with reverent mouth she brings it into a round shape, and carrying this with her feet she goes to the sunrise, and stopping at the altar she sets it down in the sacred temple. She shows herself and presents herself as an object of wonder to whoever sees her; there is such great beauty in her, such great honor about her.

To begin with, her color is like the brightness that the seeds of the pomegranate take on under the smooth rind when they are ripe — such color as is in the petals the poppy puts out in the fields, when Flora spreads her clothing beneath a blushing sky. Her shoulders and beautiful breast shine with this covering; with it her head shines, and her neck, and the upper part of her back. Her tail is spread out, streaked with yellow metal, and mingled purple blushes in its spots. Between her wings there is a bright mark above, as Iris on high is used to painting a cloud from above. She gleams with a mingling of green emerald, and a shining beak of clear horn opens itself. Her eyes are large; you would think they were two jacinths, and from the middle of them a bright flame shines. A crown of rays is fitted to her whole head, resembling on high the glory of the head of Phoebus. Scales cover her thighs, spangled with yellow metal, but a rosy color paints her claws with honor.

Her form seems to blend the shape of the peacock with that of the painted bird of the Phasis. The winged creature that is produced in the lands of the Arabians, whether it is beast or bird, can hardly equal her size. She is not slow, however, as birds are whose great bodies make their movements sluggish and their weight very heavy. She is light and swift, full of royal beauty. Such she always shows herself in the sight of men.

Egypt comes to this wondrous sight, and the cheering crowd greets the rare bird. They carve her image at once on the consecrated marble, and mark both the event and the day with a new inscription. Birds of every kind gather; none of them thinks of prey, none of fear. Attended by a chorus of birds, she flies through the sky, and a crowd goes with her, rejoicing in the reverent duty. But when she has reached the regions of the pure upper air, she turns back at once, and afterwards is hidden in her own country.

But oh, bird of happy lot and happy thread of fate, to whom the god himself granted to be born from herself! Whether she is female, or male, or neither, or both — happy she, who enters into no bargains of Venus. Death is her Venus; her only pleasure is in death; in order to be born, she first desires to die. She is her own offspring, her own father and her own heir, her own nurse, and always her own foster-child. She is indeed herself and yet not the same, since she is herself and not herself, having gained eternal life by the gift of death.

Whoever you are who approach and are entering the threshold at the middle of the temple, stop a little and look at me: though I was innocent, I suffered for your crime. Lay me up in your mind; keep me in your heart. I am the one who, pitying the bitter misfortunes of men, came here as a go-between of the peace I offered, and as a full pardon for the guilt we all share. Here the brightest light from above is given back to the earth; here is the merciful likeness of safety; here I am a rest to you, the right way, the true redemption, the standard of God and a sign of destiny worth remembering.

It was on your account, and for your life, that I entered the Virgin’s womb, was made man, and suffered a dreadful death. I found no rest anywhere in the regions of the earth, but everywhere threats, everywhere labors. First of all a wretched hut in the land of Judea sheltered me at my birth, and my mother with me; there first, among the sluggish cattle stretched out on the ground, dry grass gave me a bed in a narrow stall. I passed my earliest years in the land of Pharos, an exile in the reign of Herod; and after my return to Judea I spent the rest of my years always taken up with fasting, with the very extreme of poverty and the lowest circumstances, always turning men’s minds by healthy warnings toward the pursuit of a generous uprightness, and joining to wholesome teaching many plain miracles. For that reason godless Jerusalem, worn down by the raging cares of envy and cruel hatred, and blinded by madness, dared to seek out for me, innocent as I was, a deadly punishment, a cruel death on the dreadful cross.

And if you yourself want to look into these things more fully, and if it pleases you to go through all my groans and to feel griefs along with me, put together the schemes and the plots, and the wicked price paid for my innocent blood, and the pretended kisses of a follower, and the insults and struggles of the cruel crowd, and the blows besides, and tongues made ready for accusations. Picture in your mind both the witnesses and the accursed sentence of the blinded Pilate, and the huge cross pressing on my shoulders and my tired back, and my painful steps toward a dreadful death.

Now look me over from head to foot, deserted as I am and lifted up far from my beloved mother. Look and see my hair clotted with blood, and my bloodstained neck under my very hair, and my head drained dry by cruel thorns, raining down on every side a stream of living blood over my divine face. Look at my crushed and sightless eyes and my beaten cheeks; see my parched tongue poisoned with gall, and my face pale with death. Look at my hands pierced with nails, and my arms drawn out, and the great wound in my side; see the blood streaming from it, and my pierced feet, and my bloodstained limbs.

Bend your knee, and with lamentation worship the venerable wood of the cross; and with your face bowed low to the earth, which is wet with innocent blood, sprinkle it with rising tears, and from time to time carry me and my warnings in your devoted heart. Follow the footsteps of my life, and while you look at my torments and my cruel death, remembering my countless pangs of body and soul, learn to endure hardship and to keep watch over your own safety.

If you ever find pleasure in thinking over these memorials, if there is any confidence in your mind to bear anything like my sufferings, if the reverence that is owed and a gratitude worthy of my labors rise up in you, then they will be goads toward true virtue, and they will be shields against the snares of an enemy; roused by them you will be safe, and will carry off the palm as victor in every contest. If these memorials turn your senses, devoted as they are to a perishable world, away from the fleeting shadow of earthly beauty, the result will be that you will not dare, lured on by empty hope, to trust the frail enjoyments of fickle fortune, or to place your hope in the fleeting years of this life.

But if you truly look on this perishable world in that way, and out of love for a better country strip yourself of earthly riches and the enjoyment of present things, then the prayers of the devout will bring you up in holy habits, and, in the hope of a happy life, in the midst of severe punishments they will refresh you with heavenly dew and feed you with the sweetness of the good that is promised — until the great favor of God calls your shining soul back to the regions on high, your body left behind after the destiny of death. Then, freed from all labor, then joyfully looking on the choirs of angels and the blessed companies of the holy ones in unending happiness, it will reign with me in the happy home of everlasting peace.

The seasons blush, varied with flowery fair weather, and the gate of the sky lies open with greater light. The fire-breathing sun raises his path higher in heaven; he goes out on his wandering course and enters the waters of the ocean. Armed with rays that cross the liquid elements, in this short night he stretches out the day in a circle. The bright upper air puts forth its clear face, and the shining stars show their joy. The fruitful earth pours out its gifts with varied increase, now that the year has well returned its springtime riches.

Soft beds of violets paint the plain purple; the meadows are green with plants, and the plant shines with its leaves. Little by little the gleaming brightness of the flowers comes out; all the herbs smile with their blossoms. The seed once sown, the grain springs up far and wide in the fields, promising to be able to overcome the farmer’s hunger. Having deserted its stem, the vine-shoot mourns its joys; the vine gives only water from the source out of which it usually gives wine. The swelling bud, rising with tender down from its mother’s back, prepares its lap for bringing forth. Its foliage torn away in the wintry season, the green grove now renews its leafy shelter. Mingled together — the willow, the fir, the hazel, the osier, the elm, the maple, the walnut — every tree applauds, delightful with its leaves. From here the bee, about to build its comb, leaves the hive and, humming over the flowers, carries off honey on its leg. The bird which, having closed its …